


Unrequited

by quietpastelcolours



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fluff, Hurt, Medical stuff, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Recovery from injury, mmm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 12:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13974945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietpastelcolours/pseuds/quietpastelcolours
Summary: When an injured Amélie Lacroix wakes up in a hospital bed, she assumes she's been brought back to the Talon base to heal, until a certain blonde doctor proves her wrong~





	Unrequited

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nefelibata_mare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nefelibata_mare/gifts).



It seemed to take her a long time to wake up.

Amélie frowned to herself and then frowned harder when she became conscious of a dull ache in her abdomen. Nothing she could recall told her why she felt as though she’d been hit by a truck, or why her vision seemed dull or why she felt so lethargic, and Amélie didn’t particularly like that. She forced her eyes wide open and looked about, taking in a sterile white environment and… medical equipment. _Ah_.

It made sense to her now.

She must have been injured during a fight, and had been extracted and brought back to base for recuperation. Moira had surely had a hand in healing her, or perhaps it had been delegated to one of her assistants - while technically a doctor, the Irish geneticist didn’t particularly enjoy being distracted by her work to deal with the more trivial aspects of her profession. Knowing Moira’s penchant for scanners, Amélie relaxed into her uncomfortable hospital bed and waited, knowing that someone would have been alerted that she was no longer in an unconscious state and come to see her.

Not five minutes later, the door hissed open and Amélie congratulated herself on being right, until she recognised the figure who walked in and her eyes narrowed.

“Ah, you’re awake.” A soft Swiss accent and a tangle of blonde hair – how had this happened? Amélie stared, taking in the sight of Angela Ziegler frowning over her bedside monitors.

“What – what’s happened?” She managed to rasp out. “Where am I? What are you doing here?”

“You need some water.”

Amélie continued to watched Ziegler’s every move as she poured a glass of water and held it out to her.

“Do you need help?”

“No.” Amélie snapped, and took the glass though the movement made her abdomen ache like fire, though she’d die in her blood before she admitted it. She took a sip and handed the glass back, staring through narrowed eyes. “What am I doing here? Answer me!”

“You were hurt.” Ziegler said simply. “Gunshot trauma to the lower abdomen, if you want to be specific,” she shrugged lightly. “I had hoped to bandage you up and leave you, but you had severe internal bleeding and perforated bowels. I realised you were going to die and so I had a change of plans. I barely kept you alive long enough to get you into surgery as it was.”

Amélie listened to this astonishing speech with her most neutral expression as she digested each word.

“Why?” She asked finally. “Why save _me?”_

Ziegler bit her lower lip. “Because I have a duty of care-” She said finally, and Amélie snorted.

“Bullshit. If you’re going to swoop in and save my life, you can at least do me the courtesy of telling me why.”

Ziegler looked at her for a long moment, then sat down on a nearby chair, still watching her with a gaze that felt to Amélie as though it were penetrating her very soul. She gritted her teeth and waited, until Ziegler finally responded.

“I knew you, Amélie.” Ziegler said softly, and Amélie’s eyes widened. “I – I don’t know. I could have left you there to die… God knows I should have, but a part of me couldn’t do that to the woman I once knew.” Ziegler tilted her head to the side. “That, and this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve saved the life of someone who the world would be better off without.”

Amélie was silent for a moment. She might be alive but the fact that Ziegler was her doctor certainly meant that she was squirrelled away in some Overwatch base somewhere. _A prisoner._ A slight hiss escaped her at the thought and she glared at the doctor. “You shouldn’t have,” she spat. “Why would you do that to me? You should have left me to die.”

Ziegler looked astonished. “What?”

“You heard me.” Amélie shut her eyes to block out the light and leaned back against her pillows, her hands tracing gingerly over her bandaged torso. She seemed to be wearing very little – a tank top and loose pyjama bottoms, and this stuck her as strange, because this was most definitely _not_ what she had been wearing when she’d been shot – her memories were returning and she could recall a pitched battle, and yet… this was bewildering.

“Amélie…” Ziegler said uncertainly, and Amélie cracked open on eye to regard her.

“What?”

“I couldn’t do that to anyone.” Ziegler sighed. “You’re healing well, at any rate. I just have to decide what to do with you.”

Amélie opened her other eye to regard the other woman quizzically. “What do you mean? I’m sure Morrison is out there, just waiting to haul his prisoner before the UN. Or perhaps you want to do some interrogation first? I’m ready, _docteur_.” She said with a derisive wave of her hand. “Take me away.”

A slightly nervous look crossed Ziegler’s features and it was so _odd_ that Amélie’s gaze sharpened, trying to decipher it.

“What is it?” She asked warily. “You are hiding something. What?”

“You’re… not a prisoner.” Ziegler covered her face with her hands and dropped back into her chair. “ _Mein Gotte_ , this is a mess.”

“What?” Amélie asked sharply, “what have you done?”

“You’re not at Overwatch,” Ziegler said quietly, “you’re at my apartment.”

A shocked silence followed.

“Wh – what?” Amélie stared around, eyes bulging, and then she put two and two together. “Your _home?_ Have you lost your mind?”

“I think so.” Ziegler gave her a tired smile. “It was hell trying to sneak you here. I’m sure Winston suspects something, but he hasn’t demanded any answers yet,” She sighed. “I have to work out if I’ll tell him you’re here.”

“Will you?”

“Not yet.” Ziegler lifted one shoulder. “You still need treatment. You won’t be going anywhere yet, either to trial, to interrogation, to _anywhere_. I won’t allow it. You aren’t fit for it.”

Amélie eyed Ziegler with a tiny spark of something that might have once been gratitude, and sat in silence.

Ziegler got up and checked a nearby machine. “You need sustenance,” she said softly. “I’ll bring you something in a moment.”

Amélie watched the doctor leave and once the door had slid closed behind her, she began to investigate her body. From the ribs down she was bandaged, and if she slid her hand across her abdomen – oh, okay, yes, that hurt. She tried to shift her position a little and jolted back from the pain, and decided that trying to sit up would be very stupid.

She tried to remember what had happened, who had shot her, but it was all a blur. Amélie then tried to work out what her team would be doing – Vialli wouldn’t sacrifice more men to try and liberate her. Amélie gritted her teeth at the knowledge that she was more or less at the mercy of Doctor Angela Ziegler. At her _mercy_. Feh.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks passed and Amélie was now allowed to get up and walk around, though she was always under close supervision, which irritated her. Ziegler had a nice, comfortable home, which niggled at her too. She felt as though the doctor ought to have a sterile sort of house, but Ziegler’s apartment was all comfortable furniture, decorative throws and potted plants sitting in every corner. It suited Ziegler, but Amélie refused to like it. She despised the fact that she was still here, still dependant on Ziegler, but the fact of the matter was, she wasn’t healed properly yet. Ziegler had medical equipment in her home and had been able to perform surgery to keep her from dying, but her equipment that facilitated near-instant healing was at the Swiss base, and wasn’t accessible. So, Amélie was stuck, waiting for her body to knit back together on its own.

Moving slowly, she walked from the kitchen to the living room of Ziegler’s small apartment and gingerly sat down on the sofa with a small bowl of fruit in hand. Ziegler was in there as well, curled in an armchair and frowning at a tablet. She had the tv on and was clearly watching something whilst working, but Amélie grabbed the remote and unceremoniously changed the channel, prompting a sigh.

“Must you, Amélie?”

“Must _you?”_ Amélie retorted, “you call me that over and over… you know I don’t like it.”

“Widowmaker doesn’t suit you.” Ziegler said calmly, and Amélie bristled.

“It is my name now.”

“Your name is Amélie.”

“Not to _you_.”

“Isn’t it?”

Amélie scowled heavily. “Why _do_ you insist on calling me Amélie? Perhaps it is to irritate me.”

Ziegler sighed. “It’s because you were my friend, Amélie. I’ve always called you that and I won’t stop now.” Her eyes looked sad. “Gérard would be devastated to see you like this.”

Prickles ran down her spine as they always did at the mention of her husband, and Amélie bared her teeth. “Gérard is _dead_.”

“I know that.” Ziegler ruffled a hand through her hair, looking upset. “Talon killed him.”

“ _I_ killed him!”

“Talon did.” Ziegler offered her a sad smile. “Just as they killed my friend. Her name was Amélie.”

Amélie sniffed. “So what? I don’t care.”

“What did they do to you, Amélie?”

 _“Stop saying my name_.” She growled.

Ziegler leaned forwards, fire flashing in her eyes. “Where is my friend? She must be in there somewhere. Where is the girl I knew?”

Amélie stared. “She – she’s gone.” She managed, and cursed herself for hesitating.

“Is she?” Ziegler’s pretty blue eyes, always so penetrating, stared into hers, and Amélie ground her teeth and made to stand up. She stood too fast, forgetting her stitches and the tender state of her abdomen, and collapsed back onto the sofa with a pained groan. Ziegler was at her side in an instant, and Amélie tried to push her away.

“Leave me alone,” she growled, and Ziegler rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be absurd, Amélie.”

Warm fingers pushed at her top and Amélie scowled heavily at Ziegler as the doctor moved her top up, exposing her abdomen, and examined the bandages.

“Does this hurt?” Ziegler’s usually clinical tone was soft, and Amélie frowned as the doctor leaned over her, probing the bandages carefully.

“What do you think, _docteur?_ Of course it does,” she snapped as a spike of pain from the pressure radiated up her form.

“You need to be more careful. Your stitches are delicate, you’ll hurt yourself if you don’t learn to have some patience.”

Amélie bristled. “I don’t have patience?”

Ziegler smiled. “You absolutely don’t. I knew you before, remember?”

 _“I_ don’t.” The words escaped before she could call them back, and then Amélie frowned, for Ziegler pulled back, shock and hurt clear in her gaze.

“You don’t remember me?” Her tone was anguished, and Amélie stared at her.

“My memories are – fuzzy. I don’t remember a great deal.” She said, confused into honesty. “Why-?”

“Oh, _Amélie_.” Ziegler took her hand in both of hers, and Amélie felt – strange. She didn’t take her hand back, but watched as Ziegler clasped it tightly, and stared.

“What are you doing?” Her voice had lost the sharp edge but she no longer particularly cared, for Ziegler swallowed hard, her eyes full of tears.

“You don’t remember? I – I really liked you, Amélie.” Ziegler said softly, her voice full of pain. “You were happy with Gérard and I would have never done anything to jeopardise that but… _mein Gott, das ist ein durcheinander_ …”

Slowly, it dawned on Amélie, and she mechanically drew her hand back. “You _liked_ me.” She said, voice tiny, and Ziegler nodded.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, and Amélie considered this revelation. Her first thought was born of her Talon training – it was a perfect situation for emotional manipulation, but somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” She murmured, and Ziegler laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound.

“Of course not. You were happily married.” She wiped under her eyes. “It’s been so many years and you’ve killed so many people I knew but when I saw you lying there, bleeding to death, my stupid, _stupid_ feelings for you stopped me from calling it in.”

“I see.” Amélie stared at Ziegler, tracing the pale features, the soft, tear-filled blue eyes and the messy sweep of blonde hair. “I need… ah…” She didn’t finish her sentence, but instead got slowly to her feet and walked carefully back to her room, leaving Ziegler kneeling on the floor, her head bowed.

Amélie thought for a long time. She couldn’t remember much of her past life, only that she had been silly and vain and weak and that Talon made her stronger. She had vague recollections of the people that had existed in her life but they were pale shades, hazy ghosts that she couldn’t quite grasp. Ziegler was there. She barely remembered but she did have a vague remembrance of laughing with a blonde woman, of someone coming to see her dance. Anyone that saw Amélie now would say that she poured all her emotion into her dance, and maybe she had once, but her dance now was savage, a triumph of power and skill. All at once, she had a vision of a face, glowing with pleasure, watching her from the front row, and Amélie felt – _strange_. She curled into a ball on her bed, and firmly resolved to ignore it.

Hours later, there came a soft knock at the door and Amélie raised her head to find Ziegler poking her head in somewhat hesitantly.

“Dinnertime.” She said softly before departing, and Amélie frowned to herself and threw down the pen she’d been fiddling with, and made her slow and careful way to the kitchen. She found Ziegler setting two plates of steamed fish and vegetables down at her small (much too small) table. It was at this table that Amélie sat, frowning silently at Ziegler overtop of the salt shaker.

They ate in silence, Ziegler casting her what she obviously thought were surreptitious glances, and Amélie wondered how to react to what she’d been told. She felt nothing for Ziegler, she told herself this firmly, and yet… as the weeks had passed, there was a growing familiarity for the woman.

She didn’t like it at all, but what she hated most of all was that she couldn’t remember. Her foggy memories had never really bothered her before – for the years since she’d become the Widowmaker had shown her how strong she could truly be without baggage, without her husband, without the weakness of human nature to provide her with a conscious. It niggled at her, however, that Ziegler remembered. Amélie didn’t like that at all – that there was a part of her, her old self, that Ziegler knew while Amélie herself didn’t.

Ziegler’s little confession had led to many long, introspective moments in which Amélie focused her whole being on recalling her old life – and remembering Angela Ziegler.

The memories trickled in, but they came – slow but not unwelcome. At least, until she began to recall the emotion that came with it. It happened sometimes, a little feeling that was as alien as it was familiar. It had caused her to visit the grave of her husband a scant few times in the years since his death, and however few times she’d done it, it was still more than anyone at Talon expected of her.

Moira didn’t know about these little flashes, and Amélie had no intention of telling her; she refused to get hooked up to another set of wires, to have her brain sifted through and her memories altered. Once was enough, thank you.

When she wasn’t looking for them, the flashes of her old life came at a sluggish crawl, with one slowly manifesting every so often, never relating to any specific thing.

Now that she was actively looking, however, they came. Sparks of remembrance, flashes of a pretty face framed by blonde hair. Nothing overt, nothing obvious… but it was there, the remembered hint of a feeling that she’d ignored in favour of her love for her husband. Amélie’s sexuality wasn’t anything that she’d hidden, from either herself or Gérard, but she hadn’t been overtly out, either. She’d dated women before she married, but as she’d met Gérard and married before she’d met Doctor Angela Ziegler, she supposed the issue of her sexuality had just… never come up.

It amused her in a way, that poor Angela had been pining after her all these years, thinking that Amélie was straight as well as happily married, and the part of her that was Widowmaker took a cruel delight in it. Unrequited love… how _delicious_. Another, small, hidden part of her that she tried to keep tamped down… felt sorry that she hadn’t known.

It didn’t take her very long to realise that such feelings were going to be a problem. Amélie _liked_ her new self, liked her impartiality, her strength. If feeling anything for Angela jeopardised that, then by God, she wasn’t about to let herself risk everything she’d gained, everything she worked for since she’d opened her eyes and seen the world anew.  

Suddenly, it was dangerous here. Suddenly, it would be foolish to stay, stupid of her to let those feelings grow, because Amélie now remembered the seed of attraction towards a pretty blonde doctor, and she die in her blood before she let it conquer her, take her back to how she’d used to be. She would not lose her strength.

Having resolved all this, Amélie began to plot her escape.

“Amélie?”

Amélie looked up to find Angela looking at her, a tablet clutched in her hand. “Yes?” She asked, and Angela stepped back a little in an indication that she ought to walk through the door.

“It’s time to check those stitches.”

“Ah.” Amélie thought for a moment. Hopefully, this would give her the all-clear medically, so she could put her plan into action. “All right.”

She brushed past Angela and felt the hair on her arms rise, and cursed herself. Entering Angela’s medical room (she’d asked why Angela had an operating theatre in her home, and had been informed that it was less of an operating theatre and more a training room, a room where she practiced her skills and tinkered away with her equipment and her staff while not on active duty), Amélie eased herself onto the bed and waited for Angela to approach.

“Lie down for me, please.” Angela’s eyes flickered to hers and damn if Amélie didn’t feel a slight jolt in the pit of her stomach; she ignored the sensation entirely and lay down, fingers clenched.

Soft hands drew her top over her stomach to bunch around her ribs, and Angela methodically unwrapped the bandages to reveal the shiny smooth skin of her scars, where the doctor had been forced to make an incision into her abdomen to repair the damage left by her wounds. Amélie wished she could remember who had shot her, if it had been deliberate or if she had been caught in the crossfire, but she could recall nothing – just the feeling of sickening agony and the sweet close of blackness over her head, blotting out the pain.

“Well?” Amélie asked tersely, as Angela made a humming sound.

“You’re recovering nicely.” Angela smiled softly at her. “I’m going to take the stitches out now and see how we go.”

Amélie’s lip twitched. “Very well.”

Angela rummaged through a cupboard for a moment and returned with a tall bottle of iodine, some sterilised cotton pads, a small dish, long handled tweezers and a pair of delicately tipped scissors. “Hold still for me, Amélie.” She said softly, and Amélie’s breath caught when their eyes met and the air seemed to still, lengthening the moment. Amélie jerked her gaze away first, and tried to cover up her discomfort with irritability.

“Get on with it.” She snapped, and Angela grinned, her brows arching.

“I’m not sure being rude to the person who’s about to go poking about your body with scissors is the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”

Amélie snorted. “Threats, is it? _Please_. You couldn’t harm a fly, let alone a patient.”

Angela hummed a soft laugh. “Is that so? You don’t think I wouldn’t make it hurt if I wanted to?”

It was clearly a joke, and Amélie grinned despite herself. “Of course not. You’re too sweet for that.” Amélie froze after the words left her mouth, and her gaze flashed to Angela, who was looking at her with an expression of surprise. They stared at each other for a moment before Angela pulled herself together and leaned over Amélie’s bare abdomen, her fringe falling across her face to obscure her features.

“Maybe.” Angela soaked a pad in iodine, then changed the subject. “I wish I’d had dissolving stitches on hand. It would have made things so much easier.”

“Maybe you should stock up on your medicine cabinet, hm?” Amélie said rather sourly.

“I have now, but that wouldn’t have helped you, not when you’ve already got ordinary stitches in.”

Amélie made a non-committal sound in the back of her throat, watching as Angela swabbed her stitches thoroughly with the iodine soaked pad, cold against her skin. With the site now disinfected, Angela took a light hold on a stitch with her tweezers, manoeuvred her scissors into place, and snipped. Amélie was just feeling pleased about how little she could feel anything when Angela slowly pulled the stitch out through her skin and while it didn’t hurt, exactly, it felt so strange she made a noise, making Angela freeze.

“Am I hurting you?” She asked softly, and Amélie had to clear her throat.

“No.” She breathed, and Angela continued. Amélie watched in curiosity as Angela worked, hands pale against Amélie’s berry-stained skin. It was a slow, methodical progress, but eventually all her stiches were out and her abdomen had been swabbed with iodine again, and Angela had loosely bandaged her to prevent any irritation of her healing skin. When all was complete, Amélie was released back into the living room while Angela cleaned up, and that night, she put her plan into action.

She wrote a note – it felt wrong, somehow, to leave without any acknowledgement, and while Amélie knew that leaving a note was stupid in the extreme, she did it anyway.

 

_Angela,_

_Thank you for all you have done for me though I did not deserve it. Encore, je suis reconnaissant. Je vous remercie._

_Amélie_

 

She chose to write those last two lines in French in the hope that Angela wouldn’t know what they meant, and if all went well… Amélie would be far enough away that it wouldn’t matter if she did.

She left the note folded and propped against the fruit bowl Angela kept on her kitchen bench, and crept over to the window to open it silently. The window squeaked and she flinched, waiting to hear footsteps, but she heard nothing. Angela had gone to bed some forty minutes before, thinking that Amélie had also retired, but she had done nothing of the sort. She’d examined the outside of Angela’s apartment building from every window she could feasibly climb out of, and had settled on the window in the eating area of her small kitchen – it had a decorative façade that she could grip on her climb down from the third story. As a sniper, Amélie was used to scaling difficult buildings to get to the best vantage point, and though it would be much more convenient if she had her grappling hook, she was completely confident in her ability to climb down safely, so much so that her only concern was being spotted by the people living in the apartments below Angela, or in the buildings surrounding them.

Amelia gritted her teeth and did up her jacket (Angela’s jacket – she’d carefully raided her wardrobe and taken the essentials she would need until she could get to a safe place to make contact with Talon and get picked up), then climbed out the window and, carefully gripping the sill, began her slow descent. Amélie had it all planned out – there was a small communal garden at the base of Angela’s apartment building, and though the gate was locked to non-residents, she had spied a section of the fence with a bench pushed against it. It was there that she planned to get over the fence, which would have her on the road to freedom.

Amélie made to the last floor eventually, the muscles of her abdomen aching from the exertion of working newly healed tissue, and Amélie growled to herself as she reached for another handhold and swung her bodyweight to rest on the grip of that hand while she searched for another. Movement above her caught her attention and she looked up, startled, and then dismay coursed through her as Angela’s pale, anxious face leaned out the upstairs window.

“Amélie!” She called, and Amélie scowled.

“You can’t stop me, _docteur_ ,” she said stiffly, panting as she swung to another, lower handhold. “I’m leaving.”

“I know,” Angela’s voice was soft, and as Amélie glanced up she noticed the paper held in the doctor’s hand – her note. Amélie cursed her moment of weakness and tried to concentrate on her descent instead. “but I wish you wouldn’t.”

Amélie frowned up at Angela as she made it to the last few feet and dropped lightly to the ground, feeling solid earth beneath her feet and grinning to herself at the victory.

“Amélie… don’t go.”

Amélie looked up for a long moment. Angela’s face was framed by moonlight, the silvery glow lighting her hair and making her look ethereal, the angel she was reputed to be. Amélie _felt_ something, a sickening lurch in the pit of her stomach but she couldn’t look away, and for a long few moments she felt as though this woman had somehow managed to turn her inside out and she couldn’t understand how.

Amélie was the first to look away, but she looked back. She couldn’t help herself.

“ _Au revoir_ , Angela.” She said softly, and the corner of Angela’s mouth lifted in a sad smile.

 _“Auf wiedersehen_ … Amélie.”

Amélie turned then, and before anything else could happen that would shake her to her core, she ran.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a birthday present for my wonderful friend darth-moraband~


End file.
